BECAUSE FLOWERS ARE USELESS

PERCHÉ I FIORI SONO INUTILI

ПОЧЕМУ’ ЦВЕТОВ БЕСПОЛЕЗНЫЕ

What great mystery the human being is, one of the weakest existing creatures: without a fur which protects him from cold, without strong claws or lethal jaws. His cleverness
produces as much domination than the flowers beauty charmed his imaginary.

What use to have a palette of superb colours, shapes of perfect delicacy? Could a fifty models of flowers be enough? What is it useful to have so many, what use to spend years of one’s own life trying to create an hybrid? Someone wonders why spending money buying cut flowers which after a few
days wither. But they exist (and it could not be otherwise) as much as music, poetry, fashion, art in general. And it could not be otherwise.

And when you think that summer colours are going to extinguish, autumn appear, just from those leaves which the wind in a moment detaches away and makes crisp on the ground:
yellow, red, you can see their veins, covering them in their entirety.

The hours of darkness increase, as in the Underworld from where Proserpina comes back to light every six monts, flower among flowers, stolen by the god of Underworld who tied her
to him forever with six grains of love pomegranate.

The land of Sicily shivered under the strides of the raper’s horse who pulled out the maid from the flowers she was gathering, in the despair of her mother Ceres who never more
seeded.